


the makings of a broken arm

by ghostwit



Series: extremities [2]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dressrosa Arc, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, IT'S ROUGH. IT'S ROUGH., Mostly hurt euu., Please mind the tags., Pre-Canon, Self-Harm, Some of it., Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22665910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: "It's--it's not mine," the words stumble out of his mouth, knotted ankles and clumsy limbs as they tumble past white teeth, pink tongue into open air with the sound of footsteps.
Relationships: Donquixote "Corazon" Rosinante & Trafalgar D. Water Law
Series: extremities [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615180
Comments: 7
Kudos: 50





	the makings of a broken arm

"It's--it's not mine," the words stumble out of his mouth, knotted ankles and clumsy limbs as they tumble past white teeth, pink tongue into open air with the sound of footsteps.

 _I promise, I promise, it's not mine_ echoes in his head, even as Penguin quirks an eyebrow at him from beneath his hat, stepping to bring his hip level with Law's along the side of the operating table, swiveling the stand of instruments neatly to their side as he does so. His mouth is dry, and when Shachi, dressed in hospital blues and hair pinned back to his nape neatly, comes up behind the two, and sends a _look_ towards Penguin, their captain stiffens. 

He glances down, almost frantic, the remnants of some long-gone guilt still flickering as embers beneath ash, crackling and pulling stark heat to the surface of grey and making him search for an excuse; He finds the snug pinch of latex along his elbows, thin, translucent film pulled taut over his shirtsleeves, splotched dark red along the wrists, dancing upwards in messy streaks and pooling in the cracks of his palm through crepey plastic. He exhales hard through his nose, watching viscera swim when he cups his hands and lets the blood pool, grunts a little when Penguin offers him a tug, that of a lost child in a supermarket pleading his mother's direction. He brings a pair of operating scissors into his hand with a quiet _takto_ , spinning them on the crook in the blades so they catch the operating theater lights, glinting like fangs.

The first time Law tries to kill himself he is thirteen. 

(Or, maybe not. He thinks of a happy Flevance with gorgeous white roofs that made him squint with their reflected light, letting his smile reach his eyes, and a persistent ache, made ever worse by the mischievous nip of October and cake served on paper plates in the church basement, the adoring "Happy birthday, Law!"s.)

(He thinks of Lami, with her dinner-plate eyes and dark, neatly pinned hair and trembling frame and clutching fingers. Thinks of stepping up onto the ledge over the hospital roof to look over the sea of white, cresting waves over bleached coral, and wonders why he doesn't think he'd mind if he fell. He thinks of the way his father--whose eyes he cannot remember--had smiled and sat him down on his lap and the confessional booth.)

He is thirteen, and he is tired, though he supposes you could say that about most of his life, but this is the first _exhaustion_ he's felt in a while. Usually, anger ran stark through every limb, righteous, unholy indignation pulling every muscle and sinew taut into an approximation of living: the shoveling of cold mouthfuls past a limp tongue with an abruptness, the jerky stop-start of walking, trundling into the lion's den, the dragon's lair criss-crossed in grenades and something thick and black and much, much more volatile than napalm oozing its way through thin, young veins. 

He is tired, and Cora-san is warm at his back as he stirs and his brain buzzes to a humming stop so abruptly that he can feel tears prick the corner of his eyes for no reason in particular. It smells like smoke, even though they're sheltering in a tight bed and breakfast run by a kind woman with poor eyes Cora addressed as _obāsan_ and smiled wide for, a good few miles out from the last hospital the man had nearly razed to the ground in a frenzy, where he'd chewed the end of a cigarette with his molars and spat the taste of tobacco on linoleum floors in disgust as he hauled Law onto his shoulder. 

He steps out of the enveloping violet film, flickering slightly with each snore, even rise and fall of broad chest, with sleepy feet padding on tile that wasn't quite as cold as he expected (he notes this starkly in the back of his mind, almost as if checking something off a list). He flinches when ambient noise rushes back through his ears and crowds his headspace, makes his lips curl and fingers tighten around plastic.

The bathroom is four steps and one twist of the wrist away. The switch came before, tucked under the edge of the mattress, hard metal and tacky plastic wedged in the gap between wood and plush, a habit born of paranoia, and slipping soundlessly into his hand under the influence of the Nagi Nagi. Everything he is barraged with is mundane, passing over medical knowledge for a precise cut (he is tired, after all) in favor of _I don't remember if Cora-san ate today._ and _The bathroom will get messy, I hope I don't upset the innkeeper._ At this last one, he turns the nozzle just enough to let water ease past a monotonous drip to a steady stream, albeit thin, circling the bottom of the bowl in gentle swishes. _Is the moon out?_

The blade sinks into his wrist like it was made to sit there, metal flashing until it doesn't anymore and he's got the plastic hilt pressed to kiss the splotched skin there. Ouch. A hysterical giggle makes to tear its way from his chest, quiet and burbling over the sound of softly running water, and his vision's smudged around the edges. 

“Law?” There’s a mirror on the vanity, and he can’t help it, looking up to meet Cora’s eyes, wide and white where the pupils are shrank to dots against brown iris, striated and regal as it catches the light of a bare bulb he’d absent mindedly tugged on. His mouth falters around his name, kept warm and safe in his mouth like something precious, and his brow furrows, hurt, _hurt_. Law feels his whole face crumple inwards, lip sucked into a pout with a clench of the cheeks and brows pulled upwards. He bawls as the blade clatters into the sink and his fingers give a spastic twitch, blood spurting onto clean, white porcelain. 

Corazon sweeps him into his arms, baggy shirt hanging over him as he wails something that sounds like _Cora-san, Cora-san_ , incoherent and blubbering, pleading, childish eyes searching the older man’s stony face when he presses his palms over the gash in Law’s wrist. The fabric soaks whatever slips through the net of his fingers greedily, blood cutting the delicate arch of each heart and smothering soot stains as white cloth gets stained. 

“Law, Law,” he mutters, voice cracking a little, glinting teeth digging through his lower lip and shrouding the boy’s small frame in his own. Law just shakes and cries around a _sorry about your shirt. Sorry about everything._

The wound is deep, but not wide enough to take a couple more than quick sutures to close, bound tight in gauze to soak any excess and taped to keep the stitches closed. Cora dropping to his knees in front of Law, chest bared to lend the very shirt off his back to keep the bleeding staunched, whispering “Can you hold this here for me?” (it’s not a _can_ , Law knows, it’s a _will, will you? For me?)_ as he gives a squeeze to his wrist hurts more than the wound itself. Law had nodded, still sputtering. Law aches something awful, deep and empty in his chest around the mucus, when he departs, waking the keeper to find a needle. 

They leave that night, Law sitting on the bed with his knees pulled tight to his heaving chest as Corazon scrubs the floor. The boy doesn’t protest when he gets lifted into his Cora’s arms, hands gentle and paternal even as they tremble, Cora slinging him onto his back with his arms thrown gingerly over his shoulder so the man can keep a large palm wrapped over bony wrist. _Thud-thud-thud_ , his pulse says. He keeps the _sorry_ deep in his throat to hitch and catch on every pained whimper, pressing a kiss to the crown of Cora-san’s head.

“Move your fingers for me, Law,” he says, when he stirs, having fallen asleep to Cora’s footfall, even and strong-paced even when he fumbles over pure air every once in a while. Law doesn’t see his face, but the waver in his voice lets him know he’s been crying. Silly. The boy frowns, burying deeper in his guardian’s coat, and giving him a hard flick to the cheek that makes Corazon startle and leaves his fingers damp. 

“Hey, hey, don’t reopen the wound! Law!”

“Stupid! You think I don’t know where it would cause nerve damage?!” 

The sun rises behind them so sharply that everything goes white for a brief moment and Law thinks he imagines the pulse of blood straining desperately to evacuate his frail body. 

* * *

The last, _last_ time Law tries to kill himself is at Dressrosa. 

(He’s not counting them, the years he’s spent burning _to kill, to kill_ and to _die_ , each meticulously planned second leading to that which he will not come back from.)

He sits there, trundled up like a bomb, something black and worse than napalm by a thousandfold running streaking branches under dark skin like lightning, like a jagged path of razed buildings where the air smells like disinfectant and smoke. 

Doflamingo smiles, flashing teeth that nearly reach his brow, popping veins and tan skin, the glint traveling up over his cheeks to his glasses. _Cora-san had teeth too_ , he thinks, teeth he bore to smother Law’s pain with busy, insistent hands to stem bleeding. He buries claws into the arms of the Heart Seat and yearns for Kikoku to take his head clean off his shoulders.

The first time (in a long time) Law tries to live is at Dressrosa, too. It doesn’t last, whisking into his gut when he sees Doflamingo go down, opening sore eyes to glance to the man laying near him, out-cold. He wants to see him smile, wants to see _his teeth,_ and the longer he lingers on that thought and isn’t granted it, the easier his will slips from him. 

It’s a skill for another time, maybe another life (the latter Cora-san had disputed, every smoky breath rattled through his ribcage to burn this lesson into Law’s skin-- you will, you will live, you will be free and feel love.)

**Author's Note:**

> Not as emo as the tags make it look but li. Yeah.
> 
> I wrote this shit in a frenzy over the course of like 12 hours after a nap, forgive me if it's kinda all over the place.
> 
> Please leave a comment or something, sorry this one is kinda A Looot.
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com


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